


Second Nature

by MiraMira



Category: Original Work
Genre: Background Character Death, Changelings, Doppelganger, Families of Choice, Fantasy, Gen, Intrigue, POV First Person, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11322849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: It's been a long time since I last saw the Other Realm.  Longer still since I called it home, or spoke its language.  Including what I am to the girl whose life and face became mine when we made our agreement - and who owes me an explanation for breaking it.





	Second Nature

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwenfrankenstien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenfrankenstien/gifts).



> Thanks for the inspiring prompts, gwenfrankenstien! I mixed and matched a couple, and hope the result works for you.

“We’ve arrived!” says my -- double? Doppleganger? Twin? (There is a word in the Old Language that describes what we are to each other; I knew it, once.) She comes to an abrupt stop and gestures at the lone tree on the outskirts of the meadow with a graceful flourish. “Home sweet home.”

I stare at the object of her excitement dubiously. “Here?” It’s a very nice tree, with shimmering bark and jewel-green leaves that let through just enough of the moonlight that we can see each other without difficulty...but still. A tree. I can’t even spot any signs of a hollow in its trunk, let alone one that might lead to a cozy interior cottage.

She laughs: a human laugh, which both surprises and relieves me. The last time we met, years ago, she’d been determined to emulate the tinkling bells that so beguile her (our?) native kind. I’m glad she seems to have made her peace with her own voice...and, if I’m being honest with myself, glad she didn’t find some way to achieve the impossible after all. “Look up, silly.”

My eyes trace the paths and patterns of the branches, to where the shadows are deepest. Sure enough, nestled a few steps from the summit and just off to the left, I find my cozy cottage after all. “Well, then. Let’s get climbing.”

As we make our way up (her with nimble-footed grace; me stumbling and stifling curses and wishing I’d brought my hiking boots, no matter how inappropriate they’d seemed for traipsing through the Other Realm at the time), I muster the breath to ask, “So how long have you been roughing it?”

She comes to an abrupt halt, the better to stare at me as I barely manage to avoid missing my handhold. “What do you mean? I’ve always loved the outdoors. It’s how we met, isn’t it?”

“You were at camp. And not enjoying the experience, as I recall. _That’s_ how we met.” What I can’t remember is at what point my memories of the encounter became hers. It’s far easier for me to conjure the taunts of the other children, or the desperate loneliness that sent me -- her -- fleeing into the woods than the instincts that drove the half-formed, near-feral thing I’d been to leap down from its perch and flash her a sharp-toothed smile.

Whatever objection is causing the crease in her brow, she doesn’t voice it: just turns back and resumes the climb. “Come on. Almost there.” 

This time, her cheer feels forced. I refrain from commenting -- or anything other than trying not to fall, until we are across the threshold and my feet safely touch the floor of the treehouse. 

Uttering a reflexive prayer of thanks to whatever deities are listening in some garbled mishmash of the Old Language and English, I collect my bearings and look around. It doesn’t take long to form my first impressions: “roughing it” is definitely a better description of the current circumstances than “cozy.” The furniture is spare and rough-hewn, more functional than inviting. Stranger still, apart from the lantern my companion lights by running her hand over the inscription carved into its base until its glow brightens enough to illuminate the room, there is little sign of the common household magic most Other Realm dwellers take for granted. Even the ceiling appears caulked with pitch, and not a waterproof charm. Did she build this all herself?

Before I can ask, my host bustles over to the cabinets, rummaging through them with a clatter that suggests any explanations as to why our reunion is taking place here instead of her (our) foster-parents’ estate will not be forthcoming. Or why, for that matter, she’s broken her silence in the first place. “Hungry?”

“A little.” Ravenous, actually. But I do remember what constitutes a typical meal outside of feast days, and I’ve lost my taste for seed cakes and dew cordial. “Oh! That reminds me. I have something for you, too.” 

Her eyes light up as I reach into my pocket and pull out a small, brown, rectangular package that has thankfully retained most of its consistency. “Chocolate!” She springs on the bar, then hesitates, apparently unsure whether to devour it all at once or savor the treasure. Finally settling on the latter, she unwraps it reverently, pops a square into her mouth--and her face falls. “It’s different than I remember. More...not-food. Plastic? Is that the word?”

I wince. “Sorry. Next time, I’ll spring for Ghirardelli’s.”

It’s clear she has no clue what I’ve said or how to respond, except by waving her hand dismissively. “Still, it was very kind of you.” Setting the rest of the chocolate on the table, she claps once. “So! Food, then sleep. And tomorrow, perhaps we’ll go exploring the Misty Marshes? Like old times?”

Sleep, even on a mattress with leaves for stuffing -- or a floor; best not to make any assumptions about which of us gets the tiny bed -- sounds wonderful. And I haven’t seen the Misty Marshes since I was the one leading the expeditions. But if I let myself be swayed by distractions now, I’ll be back in my (her--no, _my_ ) world before I know it, with nothing to show for the experience but anxious parents and angry coworkers and a host of unanswered questions. Including when, if ever, I can expect a past that feels more unreal with every passing day to come rushing back and upset everything I’ve built for myself. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

She blinks with the kind of wide-eyed surprise that only comes from extensive practice. “I wanted to see you. What more is there to tell?”

“You can start with why it’s been seven years.” I see her eyes go wider, and feel my own narrow in response. “And don’t give me the ‘has it really been that long?’ routine. Time might work differently here, but not for us. Not for _you_.”

The last time we were together, even the slightest reminder of her origins would have triggered tears or anger. Instead, she lowers her gaze, subdued. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?!” I expected more denial, excuses, stonewalling. An apology is more than I dared dream, and yet it’s unleashed a fury I’ve been holding in for six summers. “You ruined my sophomore year of college, you know that? When you didn’t show up at our meeting spot, I thought I’d done something wrong: I’d become too grown up, too ordinary, too _human_. So I skipped class and stayed in my room, writing stories about us. I brought them to show you, the next year. And the year after that. I only stopped coming after I moved away for work -- and even then, I spent Midsummer Eve pacing my apartment, wondering if you were there waiting, worried I’d abandoned you.”

She shakes her head.

“Good,” I say, though the confirmation brings me no pleasure. Not only does it erase any lingering doubts this might all be some big misunderstanding, I’ll never get to gloat that now she knows how it feels. “I tried other methods, too. I left notes for you in the mist on windowpanes, dragged through the grass with a stick, whispered on the wind. I checked out every book in the library I thought could possibly have some kind of helpful ritual. I took a backpacking trip to Europe, and stopped at every stone circle I could. I even thought about consulting psychics to see if they could tell me if you were still alive, but I felt like I’d know if you weren’t.”

“You would,” she whispers, fixated on her hands as she twists the fingers around each other. A nervous habit that I once struggled to imitate, and is now second nature. “We’re connected, always. You’re the one who told me that, when we made our agreement. Remember?”

I ignore the question. “Then finally, last fall, I started thinking maybe I’d made up the whole thing. Maybe something terrible happened to me at camp, and it was easier to pretend I was someone else before it happened than to hang on to those memories. I’d just worked up the courage to find a psychiatrist when that moth showed up at the window with your note.” I shudder, recalling both my horror at the insect’s size and the hollow feeling in my stomach as I realized what it represented. “You’re lucky I didn’t squash it. You’re lucky I didn’t have myself committed. You’re lucky I’m here at all. The _least_ you owe me is an explanation.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I--I thought it would be better to ease you into it, but…” Clamping one hand down to hold the other in place, she raises her head and looks me in the eye without evasion. “What I did, I did to protect you.”

“Protect me?” I want to be angry again, but I recognize her expression, although I haven’t seen it from this vantage point in a while. _Believe me,_ it pleads. And how can I do otherwise? If we’ve grown so different that she’s learned how to lie to me with our own face, I’m already lost.

Demonstrating another nervous habit I know well, she begins pacing the room as she organizes her thoughts. “The year I--we--turned eighteen, two things happened. The first was that Father and Mother officially named me their heir. The second,” and here she pauses briefly, to ensure I understand that this is the important part, “was that Duke Wildbrush died of a hunting accident two weeks later.”

“O-kay,” I say, uncomprehending. Lord and Lady Winterbloom -- I’d never worked up the nerve to call them Father and Mother, despite their kind insistence -- hadn’t felt the need to take up my brief annual visits with Other Realm gossip. Or politics, which (from what I have managed to gather) amounts to the same thing, only with deadlier consequences for attracting the wrong type of attention. I have a sinking suspicion this will turn out to be the latter.

At least she doesn’t seem offended by my ignorance. “Duke Wildbrush was third in line for the throne. He never named an heir, and Father was his nearest surviving relative. Which made _Father_ third in line for the throne, and put me in the line of succession.”

“Then...why--?” I stammer once I regain control of my jaw, hoping my flailing gestures at our modest surroundings will fill in the rest for me.

I’ve never seen a smile so devoid of happiness. “Most nobles aren’t as...progressive as Mother and Father. It’s all very well to keep humans as pets while they’re small and cute and harmless. You’re not supposed to welcome them into the family, let alone hand them any sort of power. As for allowing one the opportunity to become queen, even under the most remote and unlikely of circumstances...well.” The smile widens, sharpens. “That won’t do at all. Such carelessness must be punished.”

Suddenly, the night I awoke in a cold sweat at 4 am and couldn’t get back to sleep until a cranky, confused Mom and Dad returned my frantic phone calls makes a certain, terrible sense. “I’m so sorry.” As much as I’d like to leave the thought there, another epiphany follows quickly on its heels. “But...doesn’t that just put you closer to the throne?”

“I try not to remind anyone of that,” she says, as she sinks into a nearby, decidedly un-regal chair. “I’ve kept to myself. I’ve done nothing to advance my claims. I’d even have given up the manor, if it hadn’t been burnt out from under me. This is all I have left. And from what my few remaining sources tell me, even that may be at risk.”

“So to recap,” I say slowly, now that I feel I’ve got the full measure of the situation, “some murderous bigots, who may already be royalty or at least have their backing, have it in for you and everything that matters to you.” She nods. “And you brought me back here? _Why?_ ”

Her hands begin to twist again. “Like I said, I thought as long as you stayed in the human world, you’d be safe. But losing everything when I thought I didn’t have anything left to lose made me realize: I don’t know how far my enemies’ reach extends. What if they decided you were a loose end that needed tying, and you had no idea there was any kind of threat until it was too late?”

“You could’ve just put all that in your note,” I grumble.

“Would you have taken me seriously?”

“I took you seriously when I thought this was just going to be a chocolate and catch-up session, didn’t I? If you told me my life depended on it? Hell, yes; I’d have listened!”

She sighs. “Fine. I wanted to see you one last time. I wanted to be sure you were all right. That you were going to be all right. That you didn’t hate me for stranding you.” For the first time in the whole conversation, she wipes back tears. “Obviously I didn’t think that part through.”

“I don’t hate you,” I tell her, sinking down beside her and clasping her hands in mine. “If I hated you, it wouldn’t have hurt so much.”

“Hopefully it won’t, now that you know,” she says with a sniff.

“It will if you start talking like you’re going to lay down and die the minute I’m gone!” Whatever tears of my own I might have felt brewing vanish in an incandescent burst of anger. This, in turn, abruptly gives way to an inspiration so powerful it not only yanks me out of my seat, but grants me the strength to drag her up alongside me. “In fact, why stay?”

She just blinks in confusion.

“Come back with me,” I tell her, clutching her wrists so tight I’d be afraid of leaving bruises if this weren’t so important. “Okay, so the human world has its own high-powered bigot problem, and you’ve got about a decade of normal education to catch up on before you can even think about taking the GED, and I have no idea how we’ll explain to Social Security that there are two of us now, never mind Mom and Dad. But we can worry about all of that later. You said it yourself: you’d give anything just to be left alone. Why not give yourself a fresh start?”

Her smile is warmer than before, but she still shakes her head as she disentangles herself from my grip. “I made my choice when we made our agreement. I don’t regret that, no matter the cost.” A trace of steel creeps into her tone. “And I’m done running. They might take my home from me; they might even kill me. But they’re not going to do it without a fight.”

“Atta girl.” I pull her into a hug, and refuse to let go until she returns it. “Just promise me one thing. Well, two things, actually.”

“What?”

“Stay alive long enough to meet me in the usual place next summer. Or don’t come yourself, if it’s too dangerous, but make sure there’s a way to get me through.”

She eyes me, wary but intrigued. “What are you planning?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But there’s something about you or humans or both that has your enemies so spooked, they won’t rest easy until you’re gone. I’ve got a year to figure out what that is. And when I do, Sis?” A sharp-edged smile of my own that might or might not contain a trace of my old, feral self begins to work its way across my face. “We’ll show them what it _really_ means to be afraid. Together.”


End file.
